


Solitude In Solitude

by oreopizza47



Series: A Living History [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27162173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oreopizza47/pseuds/oreopizza47
Summary: Urim tries to get his bearings in Solitude.
Series: A Living History [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980581





	Solitude In Solitude

Safehouse, it seemed, was a misnomer. The lodgings above the gallery were expansive, and lavish compared to anything Urim had ever laid claim to in his life. In size and function, it was practically a stronghold for one, in fact.

There, when you walked in through the main door, the stronghold courtyard. In the hold of his birth, one could find a never-ending bustle of activity here. The hunters skinning their kills, delivering meat to the butchers and pelts to the tanner. Children and adults both calling out in combat training. He could hear it all when he closed his eyes. Opening them though, showed a wide living area, with ample seating for company placed around a large hearth, more company than Urim could even conceive of gathering. Massive stained-glass windows took up the entire wall opposite the entrance, lightly obscuring the view outside to a balcony overlooking Solitude. Against the wall to his right, a sturdy wooden study desk, with quill and parchment enough for years of research notes. 

There, through the first door on the left, the mess hall. The favored gathering place of hungry warriors and tired hunters. Always delicious scents wafting from within, and the clinking of flatware. He always loved the thick smell of searing meat. He could smell it when he closed his eyes. Opening them though, he could smell instead a dizzying variety of spices and cooking ingredients, and plants growing all along the walls. The door opened to a long dining room table with a dozen chairs, flatware already set for meal time. Through another door behind the table, the kitchen, with marked and sorted storage for a wide variety of ingredients, including a magically frozen icebox.

Backing out and entering the next door, the forge. Even to thick Orsimer skin, the heat would be intense, the better to temper the legendary Orichalcum into fine Orcish gear. His mother had been forge-wife to the chief, and so Urim had held a blacksmith's hammer since before even holding a sword. He could feel the heat and sweat on his arms when he closed his eyes. Opening them though, the heat was not so intense as his memories, but the heat was not all he could feel. Here in the safehouse, a large room was dedicated to an enormous workshop space with supplies for all manner of crafting. In addition to the heat of the forge in the corner, he could feel a subtle electricity in the air that seemed to originate from an enchanting table, and an acrid taste on his tongue wafting from a nearby alchemical bench. 

An empty storage closet sat at the foot of the stairs, with convenient space set out to organize weapons and armor, like his own personal armory. Up the stairs, in either direction lay an empty room, which Urim could imagine as barracks for companions, were he ever to find any that could work past his stubbornness. And then, the center door at the top of the stairs. The bedroom. 

Urim pushed open the door to find complementary extravagance to the rest of the safehouse. A four-poster bed sat against the wall, ornate candlesticks on nightstands on either side. Across the room lay a spacious vanity with room for all manner of jewelery, next to a large wardrobe with room for dozens of outfits. Two doors sat in opposite corners of the room. One led to a closet dedicated entirely to cloak hangers, while the other led to an in-ground stone bath. 

Urim blinked. Auryen preferred the staff barracks to this? And felt that this was equal to a simple thanks for accepting the job offer? This was… Frankly insane. The scale of this all…

And yet, Urim could easily see why Auryen might prefer the simplicity. The sheer size of the safehouse allowed for a wide variety of amenities to be placed within, but it brought with it an oppressive atmosphere. Too quiet, for its size. Lonely. Perhaps, even more so for Urim than Auryen.

Not for the first time, Urim's thoughts were cast back to the stronghold of his birth. He could still remember every inch of the place. The sturdy wooden walls that protected them from attackers. The squat huts that housed everyone he ever knew for the first dozen years of his life. The courtyard ringing with the clash of blades. There had been the last time he felt truly at home. Life was not always easy or safe, but Urim had always appreciated the sense of community. The world, in so many ways, shunned the Orsimer, so that all they had in the world was each other, and it brought them closer. Orsinium had been a fine place to live, better in some ways, but the larger diversity of Orsimer clans and even some outsiders had made it nearly impossible to form the same connections. Even his own clanmates had drifted apart there, subsumed by the needs of the city. It would be unfair to claim they were all less happy for it. But to claim that all were equally as important in Orsinium as they were in the stronghold would be a pleasant lie. 

Though the safehouse provided its namesake in protection and comfort and then some, it was somehow lesser in comparison to his memories. A stronghold for one, yes… but a stronghold needs dozens to be strong, a finely tuned machine where all have a role and all share the strength of the clan. This empty shell… it would serve, for the time being, but Urim knew he would be happier on the road again when work began. 

Without having paused long enough even to sit down, Urim swept out of the safehouse. Later in the night, when exhaustion was upon him, he thought he might see it in a more favorable light. But for now, he needed air. Needed to feel wind at his back and grass under his feet. It was time to get to know the neighbors. 

⁂

"Hey, you looking for a place to stay, adventurer?" called a boisterous voice over Urim's shoulder. "No better place in Solitude than the Winking Skeever!" 

Urim had trekked out of the gallery and headed back out towards the main gate to get his bearings. He had remembered passing several shop signs, but had hardly paid them much mind at the time. Now, he was standing at a notice board, paging through pamphlets and notices, when he turned to see the man greeting him. 

"Winking Skeever?" asked Urim. 

"The tavern right in front of you! My tavern is the best in Solitude. And the only one in Solitude!" laughed the man. "Sorex is the name." 

"Urim. You own this place?" 

"Well, my father owns it. But someday he's going to pass it on to me! Might as well be ready for it!" Sorex did not seem to let the minor detail of not owning the bar reduce his apparent pride in his involvement with it. 

"Which reminds me!" Sorex shouted with a snap of his fingers. "I've got a delivery of rum for the steward up in the Blue Palace, Falk Firebeard. I'd run it up myself, but I've really got to get back to work. Think I could trouble you to take it there for me?" 

Ah, there it was. Urim was standing at the notice board, in his adventuring gear, so of course he must be looking for work. No wonder Sorex had tried to seem so important. Still, as good an excuse as any to head to the palace and try to mingle with the higher ups. "Alright. Consider it done."

"Aye, I knew I could count on you! Hey, stop back at the Skeever after and I'm sure we can help you out in return." Sorex clapped Urim's shoulder and began to head towards the tavern, but stopped as he let go of Urim. He leaned forward and asked "Say, don't you look a little familiar? Yeah, yeah you were there at the execution. Hah! Hell of a welcome to our fine hold. But between you and me, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, you know?"

Urim raised his eyebrows a fraction. He did follow the expression, but the context surprised him. He had been caught up in a rush of his own memories during the execution, only catching the broader points: Ulfric Stormcloak had killed the High King, Torygg, in single combat. He fled the city. Roggvir had opened the gate. He was branded a traitor for following his traditions. With only that context and the stoic face of the Nord awaiting his death to go on, Urim had felt a small kinship with Roggvir. Prosecuted for traditional beliefs, shunned for doing what he felt right. But Urim had to remember that no story is black and white. And Sorex seemed to be a clear indication that Roggvir was not just the steady traditionalist he projected in his final moments. 

"No, I don't know. Elaborate." 

Sorex blinked at that, but wasted no time filling Urim's ears. "A few of us here all grew up together. Roggvir, me, Vivienne, some others. Roggvir, he was always a bit of a bully. Especially to me. Incessant about it to be honest. Mockery, insults… even put a beehive in my bed once. And though we're all adults now, he never grew more mature. Still a cruel child in spirit. All that talk of honor, I don't think he had a drop." 

"No love lost then. Are you glad?" asked Urim. 

The question gave Sorex pause. "I don't know if it was right, to kill him for that. But I don't think I'll be losing any sleep." 

"Hmm." 

The silence between the pair extended a few uncomfortable beats, before Sorex finally found his footing again. "Anyway, thanks again for helping with that delivery. Hopefully I'll see you at the Skeever soon." Without waiting for a response, Sorex turned and entered the tavern, looking back at Urim, and then briefly to the stage in mild confusion. 

Urim hefted the bottle of rum in his hand and peered at it for a long moment, mulling over the conversation. An honorable death, for a dishonorable life. What to make of that? In any case, now wasn't the time. With no small amount of weariness, Urim slipped the bottle into a pouch on his bandolier, and began the trek to the palace.

⁂

"There are howls and lights coming from that cave! Someone needs to investigate."

"Please, he's overreacting."

"We'll make sure someone looks. Now, I think we should hold a military parade for morale."

"That's a… fine idea, Jarl. But… maybe after the war is ended?"

"You'd be too much a target for assassins!"

"This war is terrible for trade."

"Of course you only care for your finances."

Ah. They're all fools.

Urim was standing at the top landing of the main staircase inside the Blue Palace. He was working on picking out who exactly he was to deliver the rum to, and the incessant chatter of the Jarl and her court was not simplifying matters. They were so preoccupied with their squabbles that they hadn't even noticed him, the Orc looming at the edge of the throne room, standing nearly a head taller than anyone else.

He elected to wait it out and let them finish their arguments. While he waited, he listened, and noticed a high level of dissent among the court. Though some worked hard to remain neutral in tone, it seemed not a single member of the court agreed with any decree Jarl Elisif attempted to make. Nearly a half hour passed of suggestion, dissent, acceptance, over and over. How could the whole court so boldly walk over their leader? Had such strong dissent been levied at the chief of his clan, it would be cause for severe punishment.

Eventually, the conversation died, and each member of the court retreated to personal discussions in various corners of the room. No one reacted when Urim marched directly up the center of the room and stopped in front of the man he had identified as Falk Firebeard, the steward. "Firebeard. A delivery from the tavern."

The steward turned in surprise, but his face quickly shifted to pleased relief. "Ah, my rum! I've been waiting, the special order takes ages to come in. Here, payment for your trouble." He passed a small bag of coins to Urim, who clipped it to his belt and prepared to turn and leave.

"Ah, one moment, adventurer," called the steward. "How, uh… how long were you waiting to give me that?" His face betrayed no small amount of anxiety behind the question.

"A while."

The steward let out a frustrated breath. "Things have been difficult since the death of the High King. Jarl Elisif tries, but she is disconnected from her duties. The High King was her husband. She has had to learn a great deal in a little time."

Urim remained silent.

The steward waited for a response for a moment, but sensing none coming, continued speaking. "You could do myself and the Jarl a great favor, if you'd be willing to accept a task. Hear me out before you respond. You may have heard the farmer talking about strange happenings in a nearby cave. I know we told him we'd send support, but we can't spare the men. But the Dragon's Bridge region is important to the Jarl. If you could make a point in stopping and taking a look, I'm sure she would look favorably on it."

Urim looked to the Jarl. She wasn't paying attention to the conversation, but he could see the weight of grief on her shoulders now that he knew to look. Well, it was probably just some wolves, maybe a bear. An easy task that would pay off in reputation.

"I have tasks outside the hold this week." reported Urim. "When I return, I will visit this cave."

The steward gave a small, weary smile. "Anything helps. Long as you get there before he comes back really."

Urim nodded and strode away. As he left, not a single head followed him.

⁂

It had been a long day for Urim. Though he'd only just arrived that morning, the day held a half dozen threads to pull him away again. Taking time to settle never seemed to be in his cards.

Urim was back in the safehouse bedroom, unstrapping his armor and laying out his equipment for the next day's journey. He had been transient for so long, his equipment was feeling sorely lacking. Simple leather armor, dyed black and strapped with pouches. A simple iron sword hilted at the hip. Some flasks of healing potions he had picked up before sailing to Solitude. He missed the heft of worked Orcish gear. He was unlikely to find a shop selling anything worthwhile, but he resolved to keep an eye out for ore on his travels. He was rusty in the forge, but it would bring honor to his ancestry to build his skills back up.

Freed from his armor, Urim knelt at the foot of the bed. Directly above him was a massive skylight he hadn't even noticed when he first entered. It was a clear night, with the sun set enough to see the stars beginning to twinkle.

Staring up at the sky, Urim voiced a silent prayer. It wasn't an action he was practiced in, but he made a point to spend some time each night in prayer. 

In his youth, his clan were adherents to Malacath, the Daedric Prince of Curses. They always said he was so named for the curse that his followers were upon their enemies in battle. Broadly speaking, all Orsimer followed him, and the laws that governed stronghold life were known as the Code of Malacath. 

However, a different lore was spoken in Orsinium. There, it was said, that Malacath was an imposter, a demon impersonating the Aedra, Trinimac. It was believed that Trinimac was the strongest of the Aedra, a beacon of honor and unity. But he was betrayed by the Daedric Prince, Boethiah, who consumed him and broke the spirit of his adherents, turning the Aedra into the broken Malacath…

It was a lot to take in, cosmically speaking. And Urim was unsure if he bought the whole story. Stranger things had happened, but it was hard to give up all of his beliefs from his youth.

It did inform a large part of his reason for traveling. The divide in belief was a symptom of the larger issue: Orsimer had almost no written history. Everything they had was tradition and storytelling. When Urim saw the strife that this religious schism stirred, he vowed to find concrete proof of Orsimer roots and settle the score. He hadn't had much luck yet.

The worship of Trinimac felt right though, in the meantime. Honor, strength, and unity. For too long, Orcs had been sequestered in their strongholds, separated from each other. Orsinium was a new age, and a new age required new thought. Though Orcs would always be the fiercest warriors in Tamriel, they could be more. He knew they could. He wished to be living proof.

Well… He had gotten somewhat lost in thought. He supposed that would do, for his prayer. Meditation on his beliefs was supposed to make them stronger. One thing he had tried to take with him from Gwylim University was the capacity for questioning. It was so much easier said than done though, when so much of what life had been in the stronghold was dictated by the chief and the needs of the clan.

Urim rose from the floor, and shook his head wearily. Change is slow, and Orsimer tradition was a mighty river for one Orc to divert. There would be time. For now, sleep. Tomorrow, the road.

⁂

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 is a thing, which means Urim is already doing better than Solarm.
> 
> I got a bit caught up in diving into Urim's history here, but hopefully it helps to inform his character. I had a section in the Winking Skeever, but it ended up feeling out of character when I reread it.
> 
> Time to actually play more Skyrim and figure out what happens next!


End file.
